


Au Diable Avec le Rang Social

by RobotVoice



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Age Difference, Aged-Up Character(s), Backstory, Butler Jean, Chloé x Jean, F/M, Flashbacks, Fluff, Non-Cannonical Backstory, Non-Cannonical Ship, POV Alternating, Past Tense, Romance, Ship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-23 00:37:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17070173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobotVoice/pseuds/RobotVoice
Summary: ON HIATUS: I seem to be the only shipper of this ship, which is fine, but I'm kinda losing interest. Read if you like, I may get into it again, but for now there are no promisesChloé Bourgeois. Rich, spoiled, concreted, nothing more than the spoiled rich girl she is. Though she's older and wiser, many still see her as the whiny brat of her early teendom. That is except her dear Butler Jean, knows the truth of who Chloé Bourgeois really is. At least, he thinks he does.Ship fic here, though it will contain plot beyond the ship. Chloe (18-19) is the main character here, along with Butler Jean, her very French servant whom I ship her with. There IS an age gap, but I'm convinced it is only slight, and I've aged them up, so it doesn't really matter. (The story starts with Chloé at 18, but I'm thinking of moving the plot to follow up to and after her 19th birthday. I do not write pedophilic fics, all romantic and/or sexual activity will be legal and consensual) This may turn into a smut. For now it's perfectly chaste, but be warned, smuttiness awaits around every corner for me. I do however promise that it shall be tasteful.





	1. Chapter 1

Chloe Bourgeois studied her clean, freshly trimmed fingernails in the light of her Hollywood-style mirror. Nail polish was nice, but Chloe had a sophisticated, downplayed taste she’d developed over the years. At 18, she now cringed at the thought of her old blue eyeshadow and pale pink lipstick that made her look so washed out. She now wore burnt honey lipstick on a casual basis, a universally flattering shade for nearly any skin type, as well as a variety of eyewear. She looked up to gaze at her perfectly sculpted eyeliner wings. Though she could pay for any professional makeup artist in the world to do her up, she’d developed a certain unique look that only she really knew how to do. For fancier occasions it was good to have a professional take her appearance into their hands, but for a regular day, this was her go-to signature look.  
She leaned back in her custom-built bergère, smoothing the fabric of her thin satin night gown as she gazed at herself in the mirror. Her hair was loosely knotted up on the back of her head, with the shorter frontal section resting around her face. She tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear and studied her appearance, thinking briefly about popping over to a salon before she headed out for the day. She heard the familiar wizz of her kwami coming near and looked up at Pollen’s reflection, perching at the top of her chair.  
“You are beautiful, my Queen!” She said, her voice as sweet and delicate as ever. Chloe smiled.  
“I know. Thank you Pollen.” She replied. In the past, such a compliment would’ve been received with an arrogant tone, accompanied by an exaggerated hair flip, but in her pre-adult years, Chloe had grown more comfortable with presenting herself in a genuine way. Especially towards (and considerably, thanks to) her dear kwami, Pollen.  
Pollen had loved and accepted Chloe from the moment she saw her, as a kwami often feels towards their owner. She saw so much potential and drive in Chole from the start, though her use of her Miraculous may have been irresponsible at first, she quickly learned and became a formidable hero. Lately though, she seemed to be somewhat sullen and distracted. Pollen’s little brow furrowed.  
“Whatever has you so sad my Queen?” At this, Chloe looked up at her in surprise.  
“Sad? I’m not sad!” She stood up, quickly throwing on her peach peignoir, her hands fidgeting slightly.  
“Why would you think I’m sad?” She asked, feigning a half hearted smile. Pollen looked up at her sympathetically.  
“My Queen, you know the kwami is soul-bonded to the holder of their Miraculous. I can feel your sorrow. Also, you could hardly touch the sushi Butler Jean brought you, even though he brought you your favorite, just how you like it.” Chloe’s eyes shifted to the fancy little tray on her coffee table, only two slices of her caviar Unagi were missing from the serving. She stared at the dish for a little while till Pollen wizzed up to perch on her shoulder.  
“My Queen… I felt something from you when I said that. Are you perhaps sad about the sushi? Is it not to your liking tonight? If not, Jean is at your beck and call, he will surely-” Pollen stopped, feeling a repeat of that same sensation she’d experienced the first time she’d said “Jean”. Every time a kwami felt an emotion from their owner, it felt very real to them, almost like their own emotions, but not quite. They were more sudden, and had no logical buildup in their own mind, so it was obvious to them which emotions were their own, and which were their owner’s. But during long, intense bouts of depression or distress, a kwami’s emotions often began to dissolve and merge with their owners, and the lines of emotion blurred, or disappeared altogether. It was dangerous for the kwami, but often more dangerous for the owner, since it could alter their powers, which had the potential to end in disaster. That is why it was so important for a kwami to support their owner, to understand them, and to care for them. In a way, every kwami fell in love with their owner. Not in a romantic sense, but similar. It had the same rush, the same desire to see them and care for them all the time, the want to drive everyone insane by talking about them constantly. Every new owner was a new experience, a new kind of connection, and a new kind of love. It was incredibly emotional for a kwami to leave their owner, or occasionally, when their owner died. The kwami had to accept that though, human beings were fragile creatures, who lived lives a million times shorter than their own. It was sad, but it was a fact of their existence.  
Pollen left Chloe’s shoulder and looked her in the eye.  
“My queen… has Jean made you sad?” Chloe’s eyes widened in shock.  
“What!? No, of course not! He, he’s my personal butler, he does everything for me, he always has, how could he ever make me sad?” She shook her head, untying and retying her peignoir absentmindedly. Pollen watched her with concern  
“Then… why is it that you feel so anxious?” Chloe looked up at her for a moment, her mouth slowly gaping open as if she were preparing to speak. A soft nock on the door interrupted her, and made her jump, turning to the door. Pollen quickly concealed herself in Chloe’s hair.  
“Who is it?” Chloe called.  
“It is me, mademoiselle, I have brought your fruit and turkish coffee.” The familiar voice of butler Jean called from behind the door. Chloe took a short breath before sitting down at her coffee table.  
“Come in.” She replied. Jean entered, pushing a tea cart. Chloe folded her hands on her lap and watched expectantly as he approached the coffee table. Jean smiled.  
“Are you enjoying your sushi, mademoiselle Chloe?” He asked in his usual friendly voice. Chloe nodded.  
“Of course, it’s perfect, as usual. Thank you.” Jean’s pale green eyes flicked up to look at her. Though she’d grown more polite and thoughtful over the past four years, she was still quite closed off, and it was a delightful surprise when she genuinely expressed gratitude. He smiled warmly, placing the little crystal dish of fruit on the table.  
“You are most welcome mademoiselle!” He set out a little white cup and poured it full of turkish coffee. “Is there anything else you need?” Chloe shook her head, squeezing her hands together tighter on her lap before taking the little cup and lifting it to her lips.  
“Nope, that’ll be all.” She said, taking a generous sip of her coffee. Jean nodded with a slight bow.  
“Very well, mademoiselle.” He then took his tea tray and left, quietly shutting the door behind him. Chloe relaxed slightly at the sound of the closed door, and Pollen emerged from her hair. Her eyes were wide, her mouth slightly open.  
“My Queen!” She said, her voice high pitched with exuberance. Chloe blinked, her brow furrowing slightly.  
“What?” She asked. Pollen gestured towards her with both her little arms.  
“Why my queen, you are in love!” She said. Chloe choked on her coffee, coughing as she returned the little cup to the coffee table.  
“What!?’ She gasped between coughs. She sat up, wiping a little drop of coffee from the corner of her mouth.  
“Pollen, what are you talking about?” She demanded. Pollen smiled wide, pointing at the door.  
“You are in love with Butler Jean! I felt it when he came in, you are absolutely captivated by him!” Chloe’s face went red. She stood up, her breath slightly shaky.  
“P-Pollen, do you even hear yourself, it’s redic-” She froze, a look of frustration overtaking her. She’d grown aware of the repetitiveness of her catchphrase for quite some time, and had been trying to shake the habit, but it was difficult in moments where she was particularly caught off guard. She took a deep breath, the red in her face fading to a pink.  
“It’s… entirely absurd. Jean is my butler, he’s taken care of me since I was a kid, how could I possibly have…” Her mouth twisted into an odd grimace. “Romantic feelings for him?” She crossed her arms, looking away. “Besides, it wouldn't even be possible, he’s…. The help. It would violate social rank, an absolute disgrace.”  
Pollen’s antenne drooped slightly. At both the feeling of Chloe’s twinge of regret and misery as she uttered those words, but also at the words themselves. The Kwami had existed long before humans, some longer than others, but no matter their age, powers, or purpose, no Kwami was above another. Sure, the Ladybug miraculous and the Black Cat Miraculous were regarded as the most powerful of the miraculous, but that was a basic fact. Their powers of creation and destruction were the fundamental law of the universe, but Tikki and Plagg were not considered “above” the rest of the Kwami, not by themselves or the others. To the Kwami, all intelligent life was precious and deserving of respect. But ever since the first humans came into existence, they insisted on dividing and categorizing themselves, and each other. Many a’ Kwami had watched human interaction, and observed one human being better fed, clothed, and treated than another, who may be standing right next to eachother, each of them just as healthy, intelligent, and worthwhile as the other. But despite the Kwami’s inability to distinguish which humans deserved better or worse treatment, the humans always seemed to know. They always knew how to treat eachother, and how to act around certain people based purely on who each of them claimed to be, or who the rest of the humans claimed them to be. Pollen herself had developed the habit of calling her users her “queen” or “king” because humans liked what these words meant. That they were special, and deserved to be treated special. But as far as the actual connotation and definition of the words, they made little sense to her, or other Kwami.  
“Why does that matter my Queen? He is very kind and takes very good care of you, not only because it is his job, but because he genuinely cares for you!” She smiled, clasping her little arms behind her back. “Not to mention, he is quite attractive.” Chloe’s face returned to a state of redness.  
“A- attractive? You think Jean is.. Attractive?” She asked, genuinely baffled. Pollen shrugged.  
“Well, not by Kwami standards, that would be impossible. But as far as humans go, I think I can definitely say he is quite attractive.” She smirked as she watched Chloe’s eyes look down at her feet, then sweep over the food he’d brought her. Pollen landed on the table next to the sushi.  
“May I have a slice, my Queen?” She asked politely. Chloe snapped out of her daze for a moment and looked at her.  
“Oh! Um, yes, of course…” She muttered, her eyes breaking contact to look over herself. “I’m going to get dressed.” She said before marching into her walk-in closet. Pollen watched her go, munching the savory unagi. She signed and shook her head. Humans could be so silly sometimes.


	2. The Train

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 of "Au Diable Avec le Rang Social"

“Chug chug chug chug, CHOO CHOO!” A boy cried with exuberance as his little black train rolled along a dark line on the carpeted floor. The heavy little toy needed no tiny toy tracks, as the replica wheels chugged along straight and quick with just a push. It’s black paint was worn and chipping, and was said to be toxic if you breathed it, or got a bit on a cut, but he was so careful he never got cut or breathed in any of the peppery flakes that occasionally came off when he’d been playing with it for too long. It was his father’s when he was little, and his son adored it just as much as he had. He grabbed the little model and jumped up, looking around the large, fancy room. His mother had left to bring Madame Bourgeois her tea several minutes ago, and likely wouldn't be back for a while. A wonderful thought came to his mind and his eyes glimmered with excitement. He dashed out of the room to the cool marble banister overlooking the main hallway to the massive hotel entrance. The banister stretched all the way down from the curley end at the foot of the stairs, to the straight end that met the wall adjacent to him. It had a slight lip on either side of it’s width, so the train surely would not fall off. He placed it’s wheels down on the shiny surface and moved it back and forth, his heart pounding in anticipation. He’d give it a gentle push and run alongside it as it cascaded down the elegant railing, and finally catch it at the end. The thick carpet would cushion the sound of his steps, so his mother surely would not know.  
He pulled the metal toy back one final time before pushing it forward, zooming it along the marble just as he’d expected. He broke into a run, chasing the toy as it chugged along beautifully, just as he’d imagined. It made the turn to the staircase and began to zoom downwards, picking up speed with the sudden steepness. His eyes widened, trying to catch up. Before he realized what had happened, his little brown shoe skidded along the red carpet of the staircase, and he tumbled down. His arms had broken the fall just enough to protect his head as he rolled down the tall marble steps, but his shoulder still hit hard as he doubled over, making a full front-flip as the rest of him slammed down at the bottom of the stairs. He groaned, breathing deeply, the pain suddenly shuddering through his body as he attempted to sit up. He closed his eyes tightly, slowly reaching his arms around to cradle his aching back. After a moment memory struck him and his eyes snapped open, wildly searing around himself for the train. It wasn't up on the end of the banister as he’d hoped and a pang of fear and regret hit his stomach like nausea. He stood up and limped over to the end of the banister, grabbing it for balance as he looked around for his train. Tears began to well up in his eyes, both at the pain, and the fear that his precious train had rolled far, far away, never to be seen again. He collapsed on the bottom step of the stairs and began to sob, coving his face in shame.  
“Are you okay?” A little voice interrupted his sobbing. He looked up, his eyes blurry with tears, unable to see the source of the voice.  
“Is this yours?” It asked. He wiped his eyes and nose, squinting to see who was there. In the gentle golden light of the grand hallway a beautiful little girl stood, her head cocked to the side, her face full of concern and curiosity. Her calf-length dress was ruffled a little and yellow as a buttercup, matching her shiny blonde hair all tied up in pigtails. Her large, sky-blue eyes stared back into his faded green ones, unwavering. He looked her over again and noticed a strange yellow teddy bear tucked under one arm, her other held out in front of her, clutching a small mass of black. Her little feet tapped on the marble floor as she approached him, the object in her hand becoming clearer as she neared. Her little pink hand opened slightly as she stood before him, his train resting there, the wheels and front piece completely broken off.  
He gasped, cupping his hands for her to drop the metal object in them, staring at the pieces of his beloved train as their familiar weight lowered his hands to his lap. He sobbed once more.  
“Yes... “ he whimpered. “I-it’s m-my train. And.. it’s.. Broken!” he gasped before breaking into a bawl. He lowered his face, pressing his forehead against the cold metal, letting his tears drip all over the pieces.  
“A-and I fell down the stairs! M-mama will be m-mad I hurt myself, and that I b-broke Papa’s train!” His wails grew louder as he realized the mess he’d gotten himself in, and how much trouble he’d get into, but even more so that he’d broken his train. His most favorite toy, the only thing he had to remember his father by. He felt a little hand pat his head before reaching to his chin to lift his face.  
“It be alright! I can fix your train!” The little girl said. He blinked in confusion, hot tears still spilling down his cheeks.  
“W-what do you mean?” He asked shakily. The little girl grinned, bouncing on her heels as she hugged her bear.  
“I help! Toyman fix train! He make Mister Cuddly, and he fix things!” She held out her hand and wiggled her fingers, beckoning him to grab it. The boy took a deep breath, wiping his eyes once more before hesitantly taking her hand. Despite her size, her grip was strong as she pulled him to his feet, yanking him along with her as she broke into a run up the stairs. She pulled him along to the opposite side of the hall he’d come from, the side his mother had instructed him never to enter. His anxiety about getting in trouble increased, but the girl seemed to know where she was going, and he had no choice.  
Finally they entered a brightly lit room filled with toys. Toys of every shape, size and color. Toys so beautiful and fun-looking, he’d only seen glimpses of them in the shops through the glass as his mother walked him along the streets of Paris, but never let him inside. Now there were so many toys, and so close he could touch them. The girl paid them no mind though, instead making a beeline for a desk where an old man sat, hunched over his work, peering at a small wooden nutcracker in his right hand, holding an odd little tool in his left.  
“Monsieur Toyman!” The girl squealed, finally letting go of his hand to grip the edge of the desk, jumping up and down so the man could see glimpses of her face as she bounced. The man looked up, adjusting his glasses as he smiled, his eyes shiny beneath his glasses.  
“Allo’ Mademoiselle Chloe!” He sat up, holding up his work. “Your nutcracker is almost finished! It shall soon crack open delicious nuts for you, just as you wanted!” Chloe stood on her toes to look at the doll.  
“Oh! Good!” She said. She turned to the boy, pointing to his hands.  
“My friend has broken train! Can fix?” She asked. The boy nervously placed the heavy, broken pieces on the table, his eyes full of shame at the destroyed plaything. The man set aside the nutcracker and re-adjusted his glasses, squinting at the demolished locomotive. He picked up one of the wheel sets, twirling it between his fingers before picking up the rest of the toy.  
“Why, I haven’t seen one of these in nearly a decade! It is an antique, very rare, very valuable.” He lips pursed as he shrugged. “In mint condition that is.” The boy’s heart dropped in shame.  
“I… I kind of dropped it. Is it ruined forever?” He asked. The man examined the toy in silence for several seconds.  
“No… no, this looks like a relatively easy fix. Yes, yes I think I could fix this.” He delicately laid the pieces out on his work desk, rubbing his hands together.  
“My, what a treat, what a challenge! To work on such a beauty! Wherever did you get this, petit garçon?” The boy rocked on his heels nervously.  
“Oh, well, it was my father’s. He… left it to me.” The man looked confused for a moment before his face flooded with realization.  
“Ahh, I see. Well then, this shall be my priority for now, I promise you I shall return it to you better than when it left the factory, mon jeune ami!” He grinned widely, his teeth shockingly white, his eyes brown and warm as a fireplace. The boy relaxed, wiping his cheeks clean of the crusty dried tears left behind.  
“Thank you Monsieur Toyman!” The man nodded, pulling a pen and little brown tag out of his desk.  
“What is your name, petit Monsieur?” He asked. The boy stood proudly.  
“My name is Jean, Monsieur.” The man scribbled something on the tag and set it aside. He folded his large, leathery hands in front of him of his desk and smiled once again.  
“Well Jean, I shall do my very best to repair your precious train.” Chloe clapped, jumping up and down.  
“Yay! Let’s go play Jean!” She said. She took his hand and ran back the way they had came.  
“Passez une bonne journée, mes petits amis!” The man called after them, waving to the children as they disappeared around the corner. He tapped his calloused fingers across the matte surface of the broken train. Picking up a few chips of black paint, his brow furrowed, rubbing the flakes off onto his desk.  
“Lead paint… how terribly you have been abused. But do not worry, I shall fix you. You’ll be good as new.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woot woot! Chapter 2, a totally non-canonical take on Chloé and Jean's first meeting! I didn't specify any ages here, since we really don't know how many years apart the two of them are, but they're implied to be quite young. The character of the toymaker has no name so far, but this hopefully isn't the last you'll see of him.  
> Please note, I only understand a little bit of French, so I use an online translator in order to include all the French words, phrases, and sentences in this fic. If you are a fluent French speaker, feel free to correct me on anything I may have written wrong. If not, I encourage you to use a translator in order to understand all the French bits in this fic, as well as the title.


	3. Pensées Inappropriées

Butler Jean pushed his tea cart silently down the carpeted hallway, his gloved hands gently gripping the shiny handle. Once he’d taken several steps away from Chloe’s door, he released the breath he’d been holding. Though he had grown well used to Chloe and her appearance, her beauty was immense and unremitting. And though the sheer fabric of her peignoir over her shiny nightgown did a fine job of covering her, he knew her appearance and figure so well he could’ve identified her shape in even the thickest of coats. That was his mistress, light yet shapely, tall by typical female standards, but still short next to him. The most he’d ever touched her was the occasional touch on the shoulder, but he could so clearly imagine what it would feel like to hug her. Her head tucked under his chin, the smell of her Burberry London perfume filling him with it’s gentle sweetness, and maybe, if he paid very close attention, he may feel her pulse against his body.  
He shook his head, promptly breaking the fantasy as he neared the kitchen doors. He gripped the handle tighter as the tray opened the swinging doors.  
“Honte à vous, ce qu’une pensée horriblement inappropriée!” He internally scolded himself. He parked the tea tray in it’s usual location and tugged at his white gloves.  
“You are her butler, she is your mistress, how could you have such thoughts? And for a woman much too young for you!” His brow furrowed, looking down at his gloves. The fabric was thin and soft, but still did an excellent job at hiding his sweating palms beneath the cloth. Chloe had selected the tailor herself, and saw to it that they were made specifically for the exact dimensions of his hands. That way, they had no bagginess or odd folds in the shape, and would fit no one else. As he flexed his fingers, the gloves moved with him comfortably, like a second skin. Sometimes he’d entirely forget he was wearing them. His heart began to warm as he thought of her again.  
That was how she did everything, which such thought and precision. Not a single detail escaped her eye, not one hair was ever out of place on her head, not one speck of dust on her credenza could be left unswept without her notice. Most of the workers in the hotel cursed her name, called her pretentious and finicky, but he felt differently. He wouldn't argue their points, (she still possessed an air of superiority, especially towards the hotel staff) but he knew her insistence at perfection had purpose and emotion. Everything she did, she put her whole heart into. And when she really set her mind on a task, she accomplished it with an unmatched brilliance. She was incredibly bright, creative, and dedicated. His thoughts came to a sharp halt as the kitchen doors swung open and Marlena Césaire entered, still dressed in her mundane clothes, toting her chef uniform in a plastic dry cleaners sleeve. She smiled as she spotted him.  
“Good Morning Jean!” She said cheerfully. He returned the smile, dropping his hands to his sides.  
“Good Morning Madame Césaire!” He replied. Marlena crouched down to the cupboard below the kitchen island to retrieve her chef’s hat and slide her purse into the space. She patted the top to shake the dust off before looking up at Jean. The glance caught him off guard, as his mind was still in the midst of his musing.  
“How are you doing today Jean?” she asked. Jean blinked a few times, attempting to process a response.  
“Ah, I am, quite well!” He watched as she carefully removed her chef’s outfit from it’s covering and tossed the plastic in the trash. “How are you?” He asked. Marlena smiled, nodding her head.  
“I am doing quite well actually. Nora sent me a postcard of her and her wife off in America. She is determined to be the MMA champion, or some such. Alya is an angel, she takes such good care of the twins, the little monsters. They’re starting high school next year. My, how time has flown.” She slipped her chef jacket on and began buttoning the shiny white buttons all down the front. A thought struck Jean as he watched her don the garment.  
“Your daughter, Alya, she is friends with mademoiselle Chloe, no?” he asked. Marlena smiled with a nod.  
“Why yes, Chloe has been over to our house a few times in fact. It was such a surprise, she always used to claim she hated Chloe, that she she the most spoiled-” She stopped herself suddenly before she could manage to insult Jean’s mistress. A look of embarrassment came over her face, but Jean simply smiled. He was well used to this kind of talk about Chloe, and it seldom angered him. It was irritating of course, but he were to argue it, it would be the most frequent conversation he ever had. Besides, often times they were right, Chloe was flawed, especially around people she had little regard for. Marlena relaxed a little.  
“Well, you know, young girls and their squabbles. But in the past years they have been quite friendly with eachother. Alya claims she has grown a lot, and that she’s nearly as disagreeable as she used to be. Of course they’ll never be as close as she and Marinette. Those two are the best of friends.”  
“Marinette…” Jean muttered under his breath. He did not know her personally, but he had some conflicted feelings about the strange half-Chinese girl. He’d seen Chloe worn to tears multiple times over her, claiming she was the meanest person she’d ever met. That she had ruined her reputation with the rest of the school, stolen the affection of her dear Adrien, and left her friendless and broken. At first he wasn't sure what to think, after all Chloe used to have a habit of speaking ill of people who did not deserve it, but then again the stress and misery she had experienced regarding Marinette was very real. Until the two of them had become friends, he had her in his mind as a sort of adversary. Someone who caused his dear mistress so much agony.  
He’d wondered many times what brought about the sudden change of heart regarding the girl, but never asked about it.  
“Er… do you know anything of this Marinette girl and my mistress? Are they… close friends?” He asked hesitantly. Marlena thought for a moment as she searched for her best spoon in the drawer.  
“Well, I’m really not sure. I’ve seen the three of them together, Alya, Chloe and Marinette, and they seem to get along quite well.” She finally found her spoon and held it up triumphantly for a moment before setting it aside. Jean nodded. He wasn't sure what else he expected, Marlena had little relation to Marinette, and it was not as though he was searching for anything in particular. But he had heard Chloe say that Marinette was quite helpful, giving advice and assistance to many friends and even strangers whom she simply wanted to help. A brief thought crossed his mind which he quickly shook off. There was little possibility that this Marinette girl would understand his feelings and situation, much less give him advice. Then again, he really had no idea who else to ask. Who could possibly understand this? What advice could anyone possibly give? His gloved hands flexed again as he inhaled.  
“Excuser…” He muttered before leaving the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo, how this fic is growing! I'll be writing more, though it won't always be consistent, I'll make sure it's always good!  
> Poor sweet pure Jean, dealing with his feelings.


	4. Une Sorte d’aigre de Douceur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chloe doesn't give apologies, she gives things, because things have more meaning to her than words. Jean is someone who knows that quite well.

Jean’s slim fingers wrapped around a thin cloth, tucking it around the tip of his finger just like his mother taught him. Now that he was twelve years old, it was time for him to take on the family tradition of servitude. He started his task of cleaning the Bourgeois library’s grand piano the same each time. He’d wipe down the top, dust the interior, change out the cover on the seat, check for any gum or scuffs on the bottom and legs (there never were any, but Jean always made sure of that) and finally, clean each and every one of the black and white keys individually. Each time he cleaned one, he’d push it down to clean the top, making a single sound, before pushing down the second to clean the side of the key. When he was finished, not one key was left dirty or unsung. It was one of his favorite things to clean in the whole manner. Both because it was easy, and because it was beautiful too, and made a lovely sound as each key was polished to perfection. He’d always wanted to play it, but his mother made him swear not to. That was the rule of the house; the Bourgeois’ were the owners of the home, and he and the rest of the servants were merely working guests. Granted, they were the best servants money could buy, but nothing could change the fact that they were second class in this home.  
The thought of that filled his heart with sorrow, and slowed his hands in the middle of their task. Sometime at the beginning of the year, Chloe had stopped playing with him. After that, she didn't talk to him the same either. They’d spent the past few years maintaining a sort of quiet friendship. They didn't try to hide it, but they didn't make it public knowledge either. They would play together out in the back garden, or in Chloe’s toy room, sometimes she would come to find him at mealtimes and the two would talk. She would tell him all about how wonderful her mother was, but how she was always away and leaving her. How her father doted on her and smothered her with items of luxury, which she liked, but she’d trade it all just to have her family together again. Occasionally she’d talk about her friend Adrien, whom she knew before the two of them had met, and how he was the handsomest boy in the whole world, and the two of them would marry someday. He would tell her how much he missed his father, how his mother had no time for him with her job, and how he dreamed to one day become a conductor on a big, beautiful train out in the countryside. These talks once lasted hours, but as time went on, they grew shorter, less frequent, and eventually stopped altogether.  
Chloe had changed a lot too. He noticed she grew more and more agitated whenever her mother came and left, never even offering to take her along, and giving her very little affection. Chloe did everything she could to impress her and gain her attention, even copying her at times. Jean didn’t like when her acted like that. Her normally sweet face grew sour, she became rude and insensitive, and began to mistreat the rest of the staff. Jean suspected that was why they had grown apart. She had learned that he was below her, and that it was “improper” for the two of them to be friends. She never mistreated him quite like she did the others, but the warmness she once had for him seemed to grow cold.  
Jean took a deep breath and tried to resume his task. He was working down the piano, starting at the lowest notes, and ending with the highest. That had become his routine, and he liked to imagine the notes growing higher and more joyous, as if the piano enjoyed being cleaned. But today, it sounded less happy. Each note was alone, not corresponding notes to make the sound into a song, they lingered though the room for a few seconds before fading away. That was how he felt inside too. Alone, his joy fading. A sound from downstairs made his ears perk up, and his back straighten. It was her.  
“Oh mommy, you are going to blow them all away in California, those Americans will learn the true meaning of good fashion once you arrive!” Chloe, no doubt about it.  
“Hmm, indeed Cleo- ah, Chloe!” The bitter, arrogant voice of Mrs. Bourgeois replied.  
“Oh but wont you take me with you this time? I have never been to California mommy, and I can help with you fashion tour! I could model clothes for you, like Adrien does for Mr. Agreste!” Jean crept closer to the door to hear better. He heard a single sharp laugh.  
“Oh that Gabriel. He may be a genius, but he’s a softie too, always showcasing that oh-so perfect wife of his and their angelic son. I don’t profit off of the image of my child. You’ll be staying here with daddy, now wouldn't that be fun Colete- er, Chloe?” A loud smack of shoe against marble indicated Chloe was stomping, as she did when she was throwing a tantrum.  
“But that’s not fair! You’re taking that old maid of yours this time, why not me!?” Mrs. Bourgeois sighed audibly.  
“Oh Chloe, don’t scrunch up your face like that, it makes you look terribly ugly dear. Ms. Page, won’t you get her a brandy, she looks terribly distressed.” Chloe stomped her foot again.  
“I am nine and a half, mother! But you wouldn't know that, since you weren’t even here on my birthday, you never are!” He heard another sigh followed by several loud clicks of high heeled shoes.  
“I don’t have time for this Chloe, my flight leaves at 6AM and I need my rest. Why don’t you go play with your little friend, Aiden?” He heard a door slam followed by Chloe’s scream. The sound of her little footsteps running up the stairs caused his heart to thud loudly in his chest. He quickly darted back to the piano and scrambled to resume cleaning the keys. He heard her steps make a left at the top and eventually fade from earshot. His heart dropped in his chest.  
This kind of thing happened often. To Chloe, her mother was a goddess. To Mrs. Bourgeois, Chloe had little more worth than the servants who waited on her. No matter what Chloe did, she could never gain the woman’s attention or approval. Jean finished cleaning the last key before dropping the thin rag into his basket, which he picked up and carried off with him. His eyes lingered over the other side of the hallway for a moment before he proceeded downstairs to the kitchen. The lunchroom had several guests, eating their lunch and chatting about, ignoring the small boy as he dodged between tables and waiters, their arms laden with heavy platters and trays. When he reached the shiny swinging doors of the kitchen, he peeked around through the bustling cooks and kitchen staff going about their business, preparing delicious meals and sending them off with the waiters. Finally he spotted his mother in the back of the kitchen, setting a kettle on the back stove. He crept around the kitchen staff towards her.  
“Mother?” He asked, raising his voice over the noise of the kitchen. She turned in surprise before frowning.  
“Jean, you’re not supposed to be in the kitchen during the meal rush, you know better! If you’ve finished with the library, return those supplies to the closet, and wash those rags, then you may ask the new porter Marlena to make you some lunch.” She shuffled through a shelf filled with nothing but tea boxes before selecting one with a drawing of peaches and vanilla on it. Jean's brow furrowed.  
“But mother, I just overheard something, are you going to California with Mrs. Bourgeois?” He asked. Ms. Page gave him a surprised look.  
“Yes I am. I forgot to tell you, she requested I come, and has invited you along. We leave tomorrow afternoon, you’ll have all morning to prepare.” Jean stared back at her, shocked and dumbstruck.  
“But- but mother! We cannot leave Paris, it is our home!” His head was swimming. How could she accept this? Paris was where he was born, where his father was buried, where… where Chloe and the hotel were. Everything he was, was here in Paris. His mother shook her head, selecting an elegant teacup from a shelf.  
“Oh Jean, this is just where we work. And now we will work in America. You will like it, it is very warm there, and you will go to American school and have friends.” A heat rose though Jean’s body, making his ears go red.  
“But I don’t want to go to American school! I want to stay here, I want to stay in Paris and work here, like father!” Ms. Page sighed.  
“Jean, Madame Bourgeois has been very generous inviting us along, and already bought our tickets. We are going tomorrow, it is decided, I am sorry.” She said, waving her hand to dismiss him as she gathered the teacup and kettle onto a tea tray and began to exit the kitchen. Jean stood for a moment, watching her go. He felt so angry and confused and sad all at once. He stomped out of the kitchen, taking his basket with him. As his pace hastened to a run, tears began forming in his eyes. He finally made it to the cleaning supplies closet and ran inside, slamming the door shut behind him. His hands pawed at the wall, shaking as he searched for the string, and giving it a sharp tug, activating the single naked bulb on the ceiling. He dropped the basket and collapsed on the floor, bracing his elbows against his knees and holding his head in his hands. He breathed hard, trying his best to keep from sobbing. He was so angry he wanted to trash the tiny room, breaking all the stupid supplies he had to use all the time to help clean the hotel. How could she accept this, how could she think he would accept this?? His head pounded, a sharp pain coursing through his skull as he slowly leaned his head back, thudding it against the dirty wall. His mind drifted back to Chloe, and how she was most likely feeling exactly the same way at that very moment.  
He stood up and opened the closet door, clicking the light off before he left the tiny room. His legs moved automatically towards her room, though he very rarely went in, his mind had memorized the route all too well. When he arrived, he rapped his knuckle against the wood three times. No reply came.  
“Chlo-” He paused. “Mademoiselle Chloe?” he called. Only silence replied. His shoulders drooped as he turned around, slowly making his way back the direction he came from. As he walked, he stopped, an open door catching his eye. The room was Chloe’s playroom, though he knew she hadn’t played there very much in the past year or so. He walked in, his shoes making little scuffing sounds on the dusty carpet. The room was still filled with toys, though neglect and lack of use had led to a thin layer of dust sprinkled overtop them. The old yellow blinds were closed, giving the room an odd golden dimness. As he crept across the room, a glimmer caught his eye. It was Mister Cuddly, his diamond eyes staring back at him from atop a rocking chair. The warm memory of Chloe rocking him back and forth on the wooden chair brought a smile to his mind as he neared the toy. He took the yellow bear in his hands and studied it for a moment before turning back around, heading back towards Chloe’s room. He stopped before her door and took a deep breath before nocking again.  
“Mademoiselle Chloe? Are you there?” He asked. Once again, silence. His grip on the soft toy increased a little, a determined look coming across his face.  
“I am coming in now! I have something for you!” He called before cracking the door open a few inches. The room was quiet, but well lit. He poked his head in, his eyes scanning the entryway to the room. No one sat at the sofa set or coffee table, or along the balcony. If she was in here, she was in the bed area.  
“Mademoiselle?” He asked. He heard an odd groan in reply. His expression shifted as a feeling of deep concern overtook him.  
“Chloe?” He asked as he entered the room. He crept over to the bed area, holding Mister Cuddly in both hands. Chloe lay face down on her bed, on top of all her blankets. Her shoulders shook as the muffled sound of sobs followed. Jean quietly crept up beside her, his hand hovering out to touch her shoulder before pulling back cautiously.  
“Chloe?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper. Chloe looked up, her face red and soaked with tears, a furious glare painted across her face.  
“What do you want?” She asked, her voice rough and shaky. Jean could’ve cried at the sight of her like this.  
“I, I wanted to see if you were alright. I brought Mister Cuddly.” he said hopefully, holding up the bear. Chloe stared at him for a moment before glaring at the stuffed toy.  
“Why would I want that!? I’m not a baby anymore you know!” She sat up, wiping her face of her tears. Jean watched her sadly.  
“I just thought… maybe he might cheer you up?” He replied. Chloe’s eyes widened, her glare growing more vicious.  
“Cheer me up? Cheer me up!? What would cheer me up is if my mother actually paid me any attention! What would cheer me up would be my mother taking me to California! But she’s not taking me. She’s taking you, and your old maid of a mother!” She screamed, slamming her fists down on her bed. Jean blinked in shock.  
“But… I don’t even want to go! I want to stay here in Paris… with you.” Chloe shook her head in anger.  
“No you don’t! You want to go to California, and be with your mother, just like I do! But you actually get to go along! You actually get to spend time with your mother, unlike me! You’ve just come here to rub it in!” Jean’s mouth quivered.  
“No, that’s not true! I, I am your friend!” He held out a hopeful hand towards her. Chloe’s eyes squinted, tears pouring from her eyes once more.  
“My friend!? You think we’re friends??” She stood up off her bed, her clenched fists shaking on either side of her, leaning in close to his face.  
“We are not friends! You are just the help! You work for my family, and I am above your rank! Now get out of my room, go to California! I never want to see you again!” She demanded, hot tears pouring from her reddened eyes. Jean stared open-mouthed as she screamed, at an absolute loss for words. He set Mister Cuddly down where he stood and gave a slight bow.  
“As you wish Mademoiselle.” He said, his voice shaky. He marched out of her room, his head buzzing, ears still ringing with her screams. As he left, he shut the door behind him before running back to his closet. This time he did not turn the light on before he slid down on the floor, a weak sob erupting from the painful lump in his throat. He had seen Chloe like that many times, but never directed at him. And now his whole life was unravelling, and he felt so weak and powerless. He was losing his home, his job, his life as he knew it, and worst of all, his dear friend Chloe, who did not even want him as a friend anymore. He sat in the darkness and sobbed for several minutes before exhaustion overtook him and made him silent. He slowly stood, reaching through the blackness to find the door handle. He cringed at the sudden brightness as the door opened, taking a moment to adjust to the light. As he did, he spotted a small object on the floor right outside the closet door. It was a little yellow cupcake, with white sprinkles and a little lemon drop on top. Chloe’s favorite.  
His breathing practically stopped as he picked up the little treat. He looked both ways across the hall, but there was no one but him. The cupcake was warm in his hands and he could smell the sweet lemon scent from beneath the thick pad of frosting. The heat from the dessert seemed to make a beeline for his heart. He walked slowly towards his room, cradling the cupcake in his hands. His room was small, right across from the closet and next to his mothers, barely twice the size of the small alcove for the cleaning supplies. His bed was tucked in the back, a shelf on either side, and a window right behind. He climbed onto the creaky little bunk and admired the treat in the sunlight. The frosting had been applied in a perfect spiral, the glittery little sprinkles adorning the tower of sugar, and the golden lemon drop light a little piece of sunlight on top. No doubt about it, Chloe had overseen the preparation of this little cake herself. He set the cupcake down on the windowsill and carefully removed the lemon drop before standing up to reach a box on the top shelf on his left side. The box was a simple old shoebox where he kept his most precious possessions. A large antique coin he had found in a fountain, a scrap of his grandmother’s scarf still pungent with her perfume, a few miscellaneous items he had found while playing, and his little metal train. The toymaker, who had left the hotel years ago without a word to anyone, had done a beautiful job restoring it. It now had all of the original colors of the train, all shiny with the wheels and front piece repaired, not a dent or chip to speak of. If he didn’t know better, he’d’ve thought it a brand new train from the toyshop downtown. He set the box down next to the cupcake and wiped the dollop of frosting off of the lemon drop, before setting it carefully in the bundle of his grandmother’s scarf, like a little egg in a nest. He then returned the box to its original place before taking the cupcake in his hand. He bit down slowly, savoring the sweet and sour flavors as they filled his mouth. Chloe had always loved lemon; lemonade, lemon candies, even straight lemon from time to time, and he’d grown to associate the smell and flavor with her. Before he met her, he hated lemons, thinking they were much too sour and unpleasant. But as he chewed the spongy cake and frosting, all he could think was that it was the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted. He looked out the window at the sunset over the Parisian cityscape. A feeling of nostalgia swam through his chest as he swallowed his first gulp of the cake. He was going to miss this city so much…. He was going to miss her so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, another flashback. Noticing a pattern?

**Author's Note:**

> So there's chapter 1! I of course took some non-canonical liberties regarding the nature of the Kwami here, I hope they make sense.


End file.
